Please Welcome to the Field
by Cerulean Pen
Summary: The Sacred Heart High School Marching Band receives an influx of rookies that are in way over their heads—John Dorian especially. And there's this cruel, curly-headed section leader that's just going to complicate things… AU, potential JDox.
1. Chapter One: Put Your Left Foot Forward

Please Welcome to the Field

Summary: The Sacred Heart High School Marching Band receives an influx of rookies that are in way over their heads—John Dorian especially. And there's this cruel, curly-headed section leader that's just going to complicate things… AU.

English Friendship/Humor Rated: T Chapters: Words:

Part One:

Put Your Left Foot Forward

**a/n: **Despite quitting marching band after my first year (it just took too much of a physical/mental toll on me and the way it was run was crooked and demeaning), I love marching band AU. More than anything. So, here it is. A conglomeration of high school/marching band angst, combined with elements of the real show. Boy, this is gonna be a wild ride. There's been some age modification: JD, Turk, and Elliot are all fourteen-years-old (freshmen), Carla is sixteen-years-old (a junior), Perry, Jordan, Ben, and Dan are all seventeen/eighteen-years-old (seniors), and Kelso is roughly fifty-five/sixty (a little younger than he is on the show).

In regards to the JDox contained in this story… well, at the moment, I don't know what direction I want to take it. I'm more comfortable with writing close friendships, but I've always wanted to give slash a try. I guess I'll just see where the story leads me (and if you guys favor a particular portrayal, let me know).

Ahead in the story: swearing, sexual innuendo/content, underage drinking/smoking, PG-13 conversations, anxiety, depression, mentions of child abuse, eventual death.

_"When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city to see a marching band."_

_._

_._

Jonathon Michael Dorian was appropriately terrified.

He had been unable to sleep the night before, which was itself a portent of doom considering he had been dreaming through storms and sirens since he was a kid. Even after transferring from his humid bedroom to the living room couch, he could only stare blankly at the ceiling and indulge the wild fantasies that presented themselves himself to him as the endless night progressed. By the time seven-thirty arrived, JD had yet to even close his eyes and had managed to frighten himself into a state of gut-tweaking anxiety. And the day had only just begun.

He laid there on the floral-printed couch, huddled under one of Nana Hobb's afghans. The afghan itself was quite tasteful and had been crocheted with an impeccably steady hand, but the piece of furniture was so horribly garish that he often wondered why his mother had even procured it in the first place. She had made an extraordinary number of questionable purchases within the past year, the revolting sofa being perhaps the least questionable of all.

_ I wonder where she got it… _He imagined a serial killer peddling his rusty hacksaws and axes and little pliers, all neat and hook-hung. And then the floral sofa, with big rusty constellations spangling the cushions, set in the center of the exhibition. His mother would pass by, spot the horrible thing, and negotiate prices with the poor serial killer until the sofa was hers.

Uh, oh. Seven-forty-five. He had daydreamed away fifteen minutes.

JD climbed off the couch and hurried past his brother's bedroom, where the brother in question would reside until JD returned home at nine o'clock. During the summer months, Dan Dorian regressed into a nocturnal lifestyle that included sleeping during the light hours and then spending those dusky, cicada-scored nights perusing the refrigerator and drinking Buds stolen from their mother's current boyfriend. It wasn't a particularly constructive existence, but Dan had never been very constructive in the first place.

And besides, with Dan always asleep, JD didn't have to endure the incessant torrent of insults in regards to his new hobby.

When he reached their little alcove of a bathroom with its dingy tiles and grinning cracks in the mortar the new boyfriend kept promising to repair, JD quickly shucked out of his _Star Wars _tee and sweatpants, and ducked into the shower. As he lathered up and started to perform Journey's greatest hits at full volume, he did his best to quell his anxieties about today. It wasn't like he was en route to an execution or anything—it was just _band camp, _for God's sakes.

And yet every time JD thought about going out on that dreaded tarmac, his mouth went flannel-dry and his very life flashed before his eyes.

JD was not what one would call "athletically-gifted" or even "walking-gifted". Balls and pucks were inexplicably attracted to his face; any game he was coerced into playing with Dan ultimately ended with JD yelling for him to "get Mom!" According to his best friend Turk, who possessed enough athletic prowess for the both of them, JD was just a little too white and nerdy for sports.

Belting "Don't Stop Believin'" into his extra-volume shampoo bottle wasn't doing him any favors.

Marching band wasn't really a sport either: at least, not in the eyes of the school board or the students or the parents or… well, anyone who wasn't engaged in the actual activity. It required an inordinate amount of endurance, sure, but in terms of impact, it wasn't molding abs or toning biceps. In fact, JD was certain the only physical benefit of marching was shedding a pound or two of summer weight and he, already slight and somewhat noodle-like in stature, was not keen on losing any more.

What was required for marching, however, was at least an iota of grace. JD would not know grace if it introduced itself and offered to watch a couple of seasons of _Lost _with him. Although he had survived the freshmen basic block, he was still legions behind the coordinated juniors and seniors, and would probably stay that way unless gifted with a right foot to replace one of the two left he possessed.

_ I wonder if there's a salesman who sells right feet… maybe the serial killer who sold Mom the sofa has some of his victims' feet…_

He realized that he had performed an entire concert since stepping under the warm cascade. Turk would be coming by in just a few minutes.

JD hopped out and toweled off, taking care to delicately massage his healthy crop of black tresses. He had been considering cutting them into a mullet recently; he would have to consult Turk first, though. For the moment, he just squeezed a liberal dollop of hair gel into his palm and massaged it through his locks until they were perfectly upright. Unisex gel, that was. Sure, it was fragrant of coconuts, but so were a lot of things!

As he dressed in an old work-out shirt of Dan's and a pair of basketball shorts on loan from Turk, JD remembered who he would be meeting today and felt a little jolt of anticipation. July sectionals were non-compulsory for seniors, most of whom were occupied with summer jobs and camps. Band camp denoted their return to Sacred Heart High School for their final year as students and resident band nerds. Among those seniors would be JD's section leader, who he was ecstatic to meet.

The thought graced his visage with a smile. JD took great pride in his musical aptitude and was eager to demonstrate it to his superior. He had met his clarinet brethren, some of whom were equally talented, which inspired him to improve over the duration of the season. His goal was to eventually become section leader and woodwind captain—roles both held by his current section leader.

He stepped into his sneakers, stuffed his lucky Monopoly hat into his pocket, and went about gathering his supplies. Music binder (accented with a sketch of a unicorn, in spite of Turk's spirited protests that the unicorn be done away with), water jug, clarinet case. As he scavenged the cupboards for something vaguely resembling breakfast fare, JD thanked his lucky stars that they would be given lunch and dinner free of charge. It was embarrassing enough to leech spare change from Turk when his mother forgot to dispense enough money for food: doing so in the presence of all seventy-three band members would be even worse.

JD paused at the threshold of the living room, gazing longingly at the dilapidated, floral couch. It was something of an eyesore, but his mother adored it anyhow and was always badgering her boyfriend to reupholster it. She wasn't here to see him off on his first day; she and said boyfriend (whose name escaped JD) had gone out for "a quick drink" around eight-thirty last night and had yet to return home. This absence typically wouldn't faze JD, but when he looked at the sofa, which was the object of her affections, he couldn't help but ponder what he would have to do in order to warrant such a massive quantity of her attention.

He bit down fiercely on the meat of his lower lip and clutched the handle of his case until his knuckles paled a lurid white. His love for his mother was infinite and unfeigned: he just wished she would start reciprocating it again.

He missed her hugs.

_ BEEP!_

JD peered out of the front door's glass porthole and beamed as a familiar sage green convertible swung precariously into the Dorian's driveway. "Turk!"

A tall, muscled African-American boy leapt out of the convertible's passenger seat as if unable to contain his exuberance any longer. As JD fumbled with the door's latch, he perceived a gleeful cry of "JD!" from the walkway. No sooner had he stepped onto the weathered and grayed welcome mat was he seized by his middle and perched on Turk's shoulders. With JD secured, Turk zipped down the front stoop; JD, one fist angled triumphantly towards the freshly-minted August sun, shouted "EAGLE!" into the morning's ethereal silence.

When they reached the vehicle, JD dismounted Turk—or rather, attempted to dismount him and then tumbled clumsily into the convertible's snug backseat. His possessions slipped out of his arms and skidded across the cream leatherette seat. "Oops."

"No problem, Vanilla Bear. Hey, grab my mallets?"

"Sure! Hi, Kevin," JD said courteously. Kevin, Turk's older brother, had been condemned to chauffeuring the pair of them to and from band camp for the next week. If his vindictive mumble of "hey" was any indication, Kevin was not jumping for joy over his new job and would most likely be doling out the sibling torment in excess once he was relieved of his duties.

JD stacked his things neatly in the space between his thigh and the door, then rummaged around in the passenger seat pocket. Turk's mallet bag, crafted from grey vinyl and clipped with a Sacred Heart High pin, was tucked inside of it. He wedged it out and handed the bag over, quietly reverent. Though they had only attended two weeks of sectionals, they were both aware of the tacit edict declaring that woodwind and brass players were substantially less cool than the percussionists. JD didn't mind this societal role much, though: he was accustomed to being the nerd. And besides, Turk was better suited for the life of a black band mallet-jockey.

"Thanks, dude."

Kevin maneuvered the vehicle out of the seemingly boundless row of quasi-suburban homes with their yellowed Venetian blinds and cheap Fourth of July appliqués. Even though Turk frequented his neighborhood so often that the next-door neighbors believed the Dorians had adopted him, JD couldn't help but blush slightly with shame at the state of his subdivision. It was an unspoken decree that anyone living on this side of town was poor and, by extension, instilled with an unflappable modesty preventing them from ever accepting help out of the fear they'd be perceived as needy and unable to support their own families.

Turk never breathed a word about it. For that, JD was eternally grateful.

"Dude, did you hear what Kelso's gonna do to the rookies?" Turk's voice shook him from his reverie.

"No. Is it bad?" JD had quickly learned to fear the band's director. Bob Kelso, a man wealthy in years and deprived in patience, had been diligently directing high school students for the better part of three decades. In that time, he had cultivated an icy glare that could frighten the bubble out of a Coke and a snappish voice capable of sending even the juniors trotting off with their tails tucked neatly between their legs. To think he had contrived some devilish scheme in order to put the rookies in their rightful place was enough to send JD's hopes for the day careening down the mountainside of his mind.

"Bonnie said something about a strip march…"

JD felt his heart drop out of his chest, through the car floor, and down towards the earth's molten core. "We're gonna march _naked?"_

"Relax, dude, I'm just kidding. But apparently, Kelso and the seniors have something planned."

_ The seniors… _"What do you think your section leader's like?"

"Casey told me he's pretty cool. A little strict, but we're a wild section." He grinned impishly, well aware of the devil-may-care reputation the percussion section maintained. "What about your leader?"

"I don't know yet. We don't have any juniors. But he's the section leader _and _he shares woodwind captain with the saxophone leader," JD added. He already felt a sense of patriotism towards his section, which included the urge to brag about its members.

"Sounds cool. I bet he'll love you, you're like the rookie of the year."

"Oh, please… please go on."

Turk turned around in the seat and punched JD's shoulder playfully. "I thought _I _was the show-off, man."

"Hey, it's a new year. I could totally be the show-off. What do you think of me growing a mullet?"

Turk's disgusted expression spoke volumes. His shaved head spoke even more volumes.

"Right."

.

.

All too soon, they had arrived at Sacred Heart High School.

The school itself was relatively old. It had been opened in 1978 and since then had undergone its fair share of facelifts and renovations, the most recent having took place about three years ago. Because of these frequent modernizations, the building had yet to descend into decrepitude and, by proxy, preserved a reputation as the county's best high school

The building was red brick and ecru vinyl with garnishments of emerald at the doors and windows. A single concrete pathway connected every outdoor classroom and eventually wound its way down into the contemporary coliseum. Its copper roof glinted harshly in the tangerine-colored daylight; its glassy skylights stared, wide and unblinking, at the heavens. All of it was perched snuggly on a slight incline that sloped down first in a teacher parking lot, then sun-baked grass, then a neat little tarmac, black and trim. Only a thin strip of vegetation separated the tarmac from the adjacent road.

Kevin drove them along the car rider loop, which ran along the paved entrance and then past the north-facing art wing. He had scarcely even cruised to a halt before popping the locks and giving Turk a shove. "Out, little bro."

"Fine, damn…"

JD slung the strapped binder over his shoulder and then grabbed his cooler and case. As he stepped onto the curb, his stomach did an artful flip and his palms glazed over with dewy sweat. _Calm down! It's just band camp! Not an execution, remember?_

He imagined being strapped down to a torture device by tarnished manacles and having the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun pressed firmly between his eyes by none other than the couch-peddling serial killer. _Hey, didn't you sell my mom a couch? _he garbled through the rubber guard that had been unceremoniously shoved into his mouth so he wouldn't scream.

The killer removed his blood-spattered hockey mask and chuckled. _Sure did! Now hold still!_

"Dude! C'mon, we gotta go inside!"

JD jotted down a mental note not to daydream while he was on the field and followed Turk into the building.

The interior was drenched in a vaguely sepia glow that reminded JD of maple syrup; the oppressively sticky atmosphere contributed greatly to that sensation. Before JD could make a verbal observation, Turk cut his eyes to his friend and whispered: "I feel like I'm stuck under a pancake." There was no reason to speak so lowly, especially with the din of their musically-inclined brethren audible from the rotunda, but both boys still felt like interlopers and treated their presence at the school with an absurd deal of respect and awe.

Their walk from front door to art hall door was brief. The band suite, along with the chorus room and assorted art classrooms, were all contained on a single wing that protruded from the main building at a wonky, rakishly "L-shaped" angle, as if personifying the quirky doings performed within it. Attached to the shorter corridor of the "L" was the auditorium, which was dim and cavernous when not illuminated by the heat stroke-inducing stage lights.

The longer hallway was linoleum-tiled and cement-blocked—identical to the twelve other wings that composed the school. However, the art students of years passed had not been fond of its blandness and had treated it as if it were any other canvas. Self-portraits from the high level Digital Art & Design class papered the bulletin board outside the classroom door; a veritable gallery of charcoal sketches and cubism-inspired projects patterned the walls. Each individual ceiling panel had been painted by a different student, transforming the dull hallway into an illustration from _Alice in Wonderland._

The last door on the corridor opened into the band suite. Despite the many times JD had walked through that door, he felt vaguely sick with dread as he approached it. There was no turning back now. Band camp was finally upon him, as was his high school career. Within the next four years, he would grow and—hopefully—mature into someone a little different than the person reflected back to him in the bathroom mirror.

Turk placed his hand on the knob and, sensing his friend's hesitation, offered him an encouraging smile. "It's just band camp, dude."

"Yeah," JD said softly. "I know."

.

.

The only modernization the band suite had undergone since its completion in 1978 was the removal of asbestos from its walls in the eighties. Due to this covert operation, a wide portion of the drywall was removed and replaced with three picture windows that were regularly polished by the groundskeeper. They faced the lacrosse practice field, which doubled as a second marching vicinity during their season, and another section of the teacher parking lot. If it weren't for the windows, the expansive, high-ceilinged room would have seemed more like a whitewashed tomb.

Most of the band's members had arrived and were preoccupied with claiming cages and lacing up sneakers. Seniors reunited with their younger friends; squeals of "oh my god, I missed you!" punctuated the chaotic babble of a hundred different conversations going on at once. The industrial coconut scent of sunscreen perfumed the entire space.

_ At least my hair'll fit in, _JD thought as he scarcely avoided being flattened by a passing tuba.

Turk grabbed him by the arm and steered him through the dense throng of musicians, en route to the shelves. They, along with the cages, occupied one of the two longer walls that comprised the rectangular room. The opposite wall was home to several construction projects that would eventually become props for their show: until then, they were little more than bundles of lumber and packages of factory strength glue. Both short walls contained a door: one leading back into the art wing, one leading onto the grassy knoll encircling the building.

They reached the shelves, where JD recognized a few of his fellow rookies. He lifted a hand to Doug, who had the potential to be a competent player if he weren't so damn nervous about performing, and found himself recoiling as Todd caught up with them. Todd was a percussion rookie alongside Turk and had the approximate IQ of a snare drum; however, his high-fives were already legendary. JD was still icing his wrist from the single high-five Todd (who preferred the nickname "The Todd", but JD wasn't about to indulge him) had given him.

"What's up, T-Dog?!" The two percussionists slapped palms and then snapped. JD watched, silently envious.

"Hey, Todd! What's our section leader like?"

"Dude, Wen is packing heat! C'mon, I'll show you!" They disappeared into the pack, leaving JD to flip through his binder as if it were of interest to him and oppress himself not to panic. He had depended on Turk to guide him through his first day and act as a quasi-"cool" ornament so JD wouldn't be subjected to… well, this. Standing on the sidelines, awkward and friendless.

His first day of band camp was rapidly losing its luster.

Suddenly, his head erupted with a burst of kettle-hot pain like a sour note in the midst of a delicate harmony. A hand went to the offended area, rubbing fiercely and ensuring no blood or bodily fluid had been coaxed from his veins. Before JD could reclaim his trebling vision and discern his attacker, a voice like an poorly-tuned piccolo lanced his eardrum: "FRICK! I'M SO SORRY!"

JD spun on his heel—ow, that was a mistake—and came face to face with a thin-nosed girl about his age. Her blonde hair had been haphazardly pinned back into a bun, with the exception of her askew bangs, which she promptly blew out of her baby-blue eyes with a practiced huff of air. She possessed forearms that were what a polite soul would refer to as "muscular" and what a candid soul would refer to as "massive". JD had a strange premonition of those monstrous forearms seizing the fragile meat of his throat in a vice-like grip and crushing his trachea like a chestnut in a nutcracker. "Oh, um… it-it's okay."

"No, it's not! I've been lugging this thing around all morning and I can't even unpack it yet!" she wailed. A hulking tuba case laid abandoned at her feet. "I can't believe I hit you!"

"No, really, it's okay." JD grinned nervously at her and recalled his friend predicament. "Um, I'm JD. I'm a freshman."

"Me too! I'm Elliot Reid!" She extended her hand to him, tragically blind to the social regulation explicitly stating that teenagers were not to shake hands. JD didn't mind though, because as their palms collided, he realized that Elliot was quite pretty. A touch neurotic, a touch peppy, and, well… a touch toned, but pretty nonetheless. "What does JD stand for?"

"Oh. John Dorian. Dorian's my last name."

"Cool! I love the name John. I had an Uncle John once… until he gambled away everything in Vegas and ended up getting married to a bartender. He got his hand stuck in a slot machine and died."

JD could have lived an extremely happy, fruitful life without learning that bit of trivia.

He might have stammered something along the lines of "oh, I'm sorry" if a lanky girl of Oriental descent had not slammed a pair of rhythm sticks together at the second door. She continued pounding them until the noise had diminished, which took no less than three seconds. There was an aura of authority about her that demanded respect and attention. "Listen up, guys! For those of you who don't know me, I'm your senior drum major, Lucy Wong. We're heading out to the tarmac now. Bring _everything _with you, because we're starting sectional circles the second we get out there. Let's do it, guys!"

A few particularly spirited souls cried out in exaltation before charging outside, water jugs and sheet music akimbo. JD twisted to Elliot, perhaps to ask if she would like to accompany him, but she had vanished during Lucy's speech. Feeling somewhat dejected, he collected his gear and crept hesitantly into the deluge of bodies trickling out the door.

JD had entirely disregarded the presence of the color guard until he discovered a flag staff under his feet. He jived to avoid it, but only succeeded in catching the toe of his shoe on it and toppling over onto his face. Only five minutes into the season and he already been wounded twice by a flag and a tuba.

"First day, Bambi?"

Mortified, he opened his eyes and found himself gazing up at a gorgeous Latina girl. Her nutmeg visage was kind, her doe eyes matronly. However, like Lucy, something about her confident stance suggested that she could kick his ass and would do so upon even the slightest provocation. "Uhh…"

"Don't worry, Bambi," she said sweetly, extending a callused hand to him, "Carla will take care of you."

"Carla adopted another rookie," a heavy-set African American girl murmured as she shuffled past them.

"Cut it out, Laverne! Look at the poor guy," she cooed as she effortlessly pulled JD back to his full height. In spite of the age gap he was certain existed between them, JD was a good three inches taller than her. She was petite and curvaceous, but held herself with the strength and adroitness of a dancer. And if the flag clutched tightly in her fist was any indication, her stature fit the bill. "Come on, Bambi. Let's go down to the field."

JD almost insisted that he was nothing like that long-legged, timid little deer, then decided he was not in the mood to have his ass handed to him on a silver platter. "Um, thanks…"

"Carla. Carla Espinosa. Color guard captain. And you, Bambi?"

"John Dorian. But I go by JD." _Captain? _What had he done to warrant the attention of the color guard captain? Was he really that helpless?

"Okay, JD. Now, when we get down to the tarmac, you'll go with the other woodwinds and form a circle. The brass'll do the same thing. When you get in the circle, your captains will introduce themselves and start leading a warm-up. Got it, Bambi?"

"Yeah," he said, relieved that she had elucidated the concept for him. A thought occurred to him. "Um, do you know who my captains are?"

Carla rolled her eyes and stabbed the air with a single, pink-tipped finger. "Your woodwind captains are Ben Sullivan and a certain _somebody _who shouldn't even be talked about because even hearing his own name makes his giant ego even bigger."

JD's eyes followed her finger until he distinguished the boy she was speaking so irritably of. For a moment, he could only stare vacantly at the specimen with the sort of veneration typically reserved for trips to memorials or wonders of the world. The senior was built in every sense of the word: his biceps were defined, his chest was tight beneath the tie-dyed fabric of his shirt, even his jaw was sturdy and sculpted. His curls might have once been Irish red, but the sun had successfully sapped them of their vibrancy and left them a rusty copper. He was already cultivating a deep tan that left his shoulders and cheeks spangled with smatterings of freckles; a vestige of a beard shadowed his face. Although he did not appear outwardly boastful, there was a certain coolness in his gait that suggested he thought quite highly of himself.

JD was at a loss for words.

Carla glanced inquisitively at her new little duckling. "You okay, Bambi?"

He struggled to piece together a coherent question. "Wh-What's his name?"

Her strawberry lips twitched as if she was suppressing a smirk. "Perry Cox. But don't even think about trying to get on his good side, Bambi. He hates rookies. And, well…"

_ Hates rookies? _"And what?"

"I just get the feeling he's not gonna be a big fan of you, Bambi."

JD could only stand dumbfounded as Carla joined her fellow dancers and began assigning roles for the day. _He hates me. He doesn't even know me and he hates me. _

The day had only just begun and JD had already lost Turk to Todd, been brained by Elliot Reid's tuba, become the child to a motherly color guard captain, and earned the disapproval of his section leader.

Maybe the imaginary serial should have finished the job while he had the chance.

**a/n: **Holy frick, this is already super dumb. Oh, well. It was actually fun and not really a chore. I did my best to tone down my writing a little for this and keep it a little lighter/fluffier, which is kind of a challenge for me. So, anyway, next chapter will focus more on Perry and Ben (with some Jordan thrown in there, of course) and will contain the fateful meeting of section leader and rookie! Until next time, have a great day!


	2. Chapter Two: All the Good Men Gone

Chapter Two:

Where Have All the Good Men Gone?

**a/n: **I can't believe I'm still doing this… anyway, the marching show in this story, titled "A Hero Among Us", is loosely based off the show currently being performed by my high school, which is called "A God Among Us". Both are centered on Superman and the mythology behind him and the concept of being a hero (plus, my boyfriend is one of the hero actors and there's nothing cuter than a six foot Superman). As promised, this chapter contains more Perry and Ben, and I hope you guys enjoy!

_"It's gonna take a Superman to sweep me off my feet."_

_._

_._

Perry Cox was appropriately annoyed.

He had rolled out of (or, to be entirely accurate, _off _of) the Sullivan's guest duvet at ten to six. The room had been torched with the molten, visceral light of dawn, which slanted through the Venetian blinds and gave his barely conscious self the impression Jordan had slunk in during the night and banished his soul to the nightmarish Hell she had sprung from. After a brief moment of panic, he reminded himself that Jordan's presence would have been denoted by the effluvium of her sulfurous breath and the quaking of the ground beneath her cloven hooves. This thought comforted him immensely and instilled him with the strength to lug his exhausted ass out of bed. Well, _off _of bed.

Upon commandeering the enamel coffee pot and decanting a liberal sum of Red Bull into the filter instead of water, Perry took it upon himself to wake his less-than-punctual housemates. In retrospect, it was technically unfair to punish them just because his biological clock was programmed to wake him at ten to six, but Perry had become well acquainted with unfairness and shoving two surly teenagers off their mattresses was definitely in the middle of the unfairness spectrum.

Besides, it was fun.

The Sullivans, a respectively well-off family, had been able to afford a house capable of rooming each of their three children. These rooms were clustered in the west wing, separated from the master suite and entertainment room in the east wing by a lengthy, ornately-furnished corridor. Perry, during his time with the Sullivan kin, had learned exactly where to step in order to avoid the creaking floorboards beneath the velvety carpet and how to jimmy the lock on Ben's door with the clasp of his wristwatch. It was with a certain fondness that he invaded his best friend's privacy. They hadn't been able to hold an intelligent conversation when Ben picked him up last night (outside the realm of his exclamation of "holy shit, you just passed the Starbucks, you passed the Starbucks, it was right there, oh my God") and now was just as good a time as ever to reconnect.

The room was layered in enough plaid flannel to open up a clothing store that specialized in plaid flannel. What was once a space as opulent and well-lit as its neighboring counterparts was now the dim, cavernous nest of Benjamin Sullivan, who was sprawled lazily across his unmade bed and photographing his rotating ceiling fan.

"Hey, Per."

Before Perry could demand to know just how long Ben had been awake, Ben snapped a picture of his new housemate. The Polaroid permanently slung around his neck by a black padded strap spat out the photo. Perry reluctantly waded across the ocean of flannel and glanced at the picture. "Jesus Christ, Ben. I've been awake for like five minutes, I thought we agreed that you were _nawt _to take pictures until I've been awake at least an hour."

"Candid photography, my friend," Ben chided as he plucked a pushpin from the inexhaustible box at his bedside. He climbed to his feet, a lanky boy with a perennially cheeky grin and a head of rakish chestnut hair that he parted neatly down the middle. Pushpin in hand, he staked the glossy eight-by-four to the ever-expanding collage occupying an entire wall. "You look beautiful, Per. Really beautiful…"

Perry detected the note of longing in his best friend's voice and intuitively tilted closer to him. Perceiving the close proximity, Ben took Perry's strong jaw in one hand and leaned in. They drew nearer and nearer to one another's slightly pursed lips, anticipating their collision. Only the merest of breadths separated their faces; within seconds, they would be—

"Goddammit." Perry ducked out of the kiss.

"YES!" Ben exclaimed, thrusting both fists into the air victoriously. "I AM THE KING OF GAY CHICKEN!"

"Will you two shut up?!"

They twisted to the doorway only out of instinct—they knew all too well who had spoken. Jordan Sullivan was draped rather immodestly against the doorjamb, dark auburn hair swept elegantly into a towel and perky, curvaceous body scarcely concealed beneath a silk, cherry-red robe. Upon sighting her, Perry grabbed Ben's wrist sharply and drew himself up. "Be perfectly still, Ben. Its vision's based on movement."

Jordan rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her extremely defined chest. "Oh, my God, Perry. I thought you were gonna get some balls at that fancy hospital camp."

"If I did, you'd probably devour them along with the rest of my pride and manhood," he said ruefully. Perry Cox and Jordan Sullivan had never once greeted one another with a pleasant "hello"—even in grade school, their salutations primarily consisted of "if you touch my hair again, I'll tie you to the swingset and kick your head in" and "sorry you can't take the class hamster home, Jordan: Miss Sweeney is afraid you'll eat it". To an ignorant bystander, they appeared to be enemies whose detestation stemmed from a mutual dislike of each other. This first impression was absolutely correct.

They were also engaged in an on-again-off-again relationship that had lasted for the better part of seven years.

Jordan deftly unwound the towel from her head and gave her damp tresses a shake. She looked as if she had just stepped off of the set of a Victoria Secret photo shoot. It was one of many ploys Jordan utilized in order to rile up her quasi-boyfriend. She had clandestinely missed him and was intent on burying herself under his skin to compensate for the three weeks he had been off studying medicine in Clayton. If the dull blush darkening his ears was any indication, she was already making progress.

"Hey, Jordan, great seeing you again, but me and Per-Bear got a lot of catching up to do. And kissing. Lots and lots of kissing," Ben added as he tossed an arm over his best friend's shoulders and mimed planting an affectionate kiss on Perry's cheek.

"Whatever. Just be at the car in twenty minutes." Jordan parted the collar of her robe slightly, allowing them a glimpse into the chasm where her breasts met. "Looking's free in private, boys."

"Ew! Cooties!" Ben screamed. He hurled himself onto the bed and quickly carved himself a little blanket niche that he prayed would him from the outside world of female cooties.

Perry smirked at his semi-girlfriend. "You heard the man, Jorderoo."

She rolled her eyes before twisting around with a pronounced jut of her hip. _"Idiots."_

The redhead waited until Jordan was completely out of earshot before nudging Ben and pulling his wrinkled Red Wings jersey over his head. Upon wriggling out of the sheets, the brunet whistled approvingly at his friend's firm chest and chiseled abs. "Wow, Per. Maybe we should go ahead and skip the kissing."

"The hospital had a gym. Where the hell are my clothes?"

The knapsack squirreled away beneath Ben's dresser was produced with a grandiose, but rather off-key, imitation of a trumpet. It typically served as an emergency kit for the nights where Perry had to stay over at the Sullivan's—or, rather, sneak into the house, quietly break into Ben's bedroom, and change out of his bloodied clothes while the brunet made half-conscious jokes. He had taken it with him to his program and, before going downstairs to the guest room, inveterately hidden it under the dresser.

"So, indulge me, Per. How'd you fare among the best young minds in our fair country?" Ben asked, stripping out of the plaid flannel shirt he had worn to bed so he could replace it with another plaid flannel shirt.

Perry was fishing around for the shirt he had tie-dyed with his section mates during last year's music camp when he noticed the mottled bruises darkening the slight concave of Ben's sternum. "Ben, for the love of God, I thought you were gonna be a little more careful. If you don't stop using your tools for bad, I'm gonna have to take them _away _from you."

"I'm a man! A woodworking man! I ain't afraid of no hammer!" Ben proclaimed, bravely prodding the bruised area. He then pointed to one of the thousands of pictures. "Plus, I got some glamour shots of the time I accidentally buzz-sawed Danni's bed in half."

"Great," Perry muttered. He squirted a dollop of sunscreen into his callused palm and smothered his freckled shoulders. "And to answer your question, it was great. I started with office work, then they let me walk patients to surgery and deliver stuff. Plus, they had lectures at night and I got to work with blood drives and ambulance workshops."

_ "And _you grew a beard!" Ben chimed in, playfully slapping Perry's scruffy cheek.

"Glad to know you're so excited, Ben."

"But seriously man, you're gonna be a kick-ass doctor. And I'll be the kick-ass carpenter/hospital photographer and we'll cure cancer together. The end."

The redhead rolled his eyes and slammed his Red Wings baseball cap on. Last year, Kelso had issued an edict that all senior marchers were to wear red visors to camp and practices; Perry, of course, had not listened. He loathed Bob Kelso with every cell of his being—hell, he despised him more than Hugh Jackman. But Kelso was his superior and could always relegate him back to section leader if so inclined. Such a fate was highly unlikely, considering the only other senior woodwinds were Mickhead, Kevin, and Lucy, and Perry had twice been named first chair at California's all-state band. Thus, Kelso was obligated to begrudgingly tolerate his star musician's quirks. Well, most of them.

Ben laced up his Nikes and strapped on his visor. He had no personal vendetta against Kelso and, as the youngest member of the senior class, was in no position to disobey his director. Since skipping the second grade, Ben had been stuck learning and growing alongside kids a whole year more mature than him. As a result, he was much wiser than the typical seventeen-year-old, but still boyish at heart and a touch immature. "Hey, Per. It's the first day of band camp.

"I'm aware."

"You know what that means!" he declared, eagerly pummeling his best friend's shoulder. "Rookie prank!"

Perry couldn't suppress the smirk that inched its way across his face. "Dear God, Ben. What did you and your oh-so-intelligent minions cook up this year?"

"Minions?! They're merely young lowerclassmen seeking a little guidance," Ben explained in mock distress. "And it's not just the minions. Lucy and Wen are in on it, too. Even Jor-Jor."

"You cornered _Lucy _into it?" Perry asked incredulously. He had been friends with Lucy Wong since the dawn of preschool and prided himself on the arsenal of Lucy-related trivia he maintained. As senior drum major and a relatively practical person, blighting a herd of hapless little rookies wasn't exactly an activity she was dying to participate in. Then again, Ben was extremely persuasive. "What, did you promise her a date with Jordan? Because honestly Ben, I understand it's extremely hard for Sunshine to find pretty singles ready to mingle in this wasteland we call Sacred Heart, but humor me here: is Jordan really the kind of person you want to pair up with Sunshine?"

"It's just dinner and a movie. Besides, Lucy needs a little action. Remember how she had that crush on Tisdale?"

Both boys suffered a momentary lapse induced by memories of the radiant, shapely vision that was Color Guard Girl Tisdale.

"Well, as long as she's not digging her talons into my back," Perry muttered tetchily once he had returned to reality. He picked up his clarinet, which had been baby-sat by Ben under strict instruction to grease the instrument's cork joints every other day. Ben lugged his saxophone case out from beneath a stray blanket, looking for all the world as if he himself could fit inside of it.

The brunet perceived a shift in Perry's demeanor. "What's the haps, Per-Per?"

"You look thin, Ben. What've you been doing?"

"Hard-ass man work! We've been over this! I'm a god!" Ben pounded his scrawny chest triumphantly and then cringed as the throbbing of his bruises began anew.

"Whatever, Judas. Get your ass downstairs so we can get this shit over with. And please, for the love of God—keep your goddamn hands off me."

"No promises, man."

.

.

There was a brief and considerably bloody scrap over who was driving and who called shotgun first. Ultimately, Jordan ended up behind the wheel with Perry in the passenger seat and Ben sulking in the back with their belongings.

"I hate it back here," he whined. Jordan thumbed the garage door remote clipped to her console and backed down the driveway in the scarlet Mini-Cooper she had received as a gift for her seventeenth birthday. She had coveted the vehicle like it was some sort of religious sacrament for years and, once it was hers, protected it with her very soul. A list detailing just who was and was not allowed beyond its ladybug-red exterior was taped to her bedroom door. It was only out of obligation to Ben and her parents that Jordan penciled Perry's name in on the list.

"Older senior privilege, Benny." She cruised down the street, which was lined with homes of varying opulence and splendor, and popped open the overhead mirror so she could reapply her matte lipstick. While her denim cut-offs and "We Kick Brass" tee-shirt suggested twelve grueling hours on a blistering tarmac, her immaculate makeup intimated a date at the Ritz. Perry wasn't about to complain, although he did want to survive the trip to the high school.

"Jesus Christ, Jordaroni, there's this new thing called keeping your eyes on the road. I know it's hard under all that plastic, but give it your best shot, m'kay?"

"Oh, Perry, I did not miss your pompous ass for one minute." Jordan recapped her lipstick and returned her attention to the steering wheel. "Benny-Boy, what's the word on the crap we're giving the rookies this year?"

Ben, who had previously been occupied with kicking his sister's seat in a sort of pathetic protest, brightened at the question. "Glad you asked, sister dear. Perry, get out the notepad, we're birthing genius here. Okay, so, twelve hours is hella long and those kids are gonna be tired and junk. Imagine their delight when we announce that the first night of band camp is sleep-away. They can just call their parents and have them bring their footies and pills and whatever. So, rookies get all snuggled up and junk, and then our dear Lucy rises to the prank occasion for the first time _ever_, and tells them this BS story about some kid getting, like, strangled in a stall. So these kids are terrified. We watch from the sidelines as they snuggle up and look around nervously. And then—BAM! You, me, and Jordan, covered in blood, stagger in. 'The ghost is back!' Jordan will yell before swooning into Per-Per's arms—"

"Ben, I swear to _God."_

"—and then Perry-so-Scary will try to fight off the ghost, but then get strangled. And these kids will be so goddamn terrified that they'll burst out of the school and into the night in their footies. The end."

He was reluctant to admit it, but Ben had concocted a devilishly perfect plan. Perry oppressed himself to keep his pride in check as he twisted against the seatbelt and regarded his beaming friend with a patented nose flick. "Well, let me tell you something there, Benny-Boy: I think you're gonna have some re-HEALLY pissed parents on the phone tomorrow."

"I'll have Lucy take care of that."

"Stop dragging Lucy into shit," Jordan said threateningly. "I can only take her out on so many dates before I actually start falling in love with her gay ass."

"Just her ass is gay?" Ben inquired.

"Ben, I will stop the fucking car and make you walk. Besides, you're one to talk, with your gay-ass chicken game and the way you look at Kevin. You can look at Jell-O for free, dear."

"You leave ol' Kev-Kev alone. And it's called Gay Chicken, not Gay-Ass Chicken. Gay Chicken sounds considerably more hetero."

"New game!" Perry announced before the siblings could start gnawing at one another's throats. "It's called 'shut up or so help me God, I will strangle you for real'."

They rode to the school in silence. In the backseat, Ben leaned against the paneling and pensively rubbed his bruised chest.

.

.

Captains were expected to be at Sacred Heart High School by seven-thirty, despite the fact camp didn't begin until nine. Kelso was especially stringent about punctuality and had reiterated the phrase "if you're not ten minutes early, you're late" so frequently, Lucy had begun to keep a record. Last season, Kelso had spouted his words of wisdom no less than forty-two times. The seniors were hoping for a solid fifty this year.

Jordan had parked her Cooper in the space reserved for the Teacher of the Year ("who says I'm not her?" was her response when Perry and Ben pointed this out) and was now wrangling her silky auburn locks into a high ponytail. "Per-Bear, be a dear and grab my visor out the back."

"Of course, Jorderoo." Perry decided they were on-again, at least for the time being, and stepped out of the car. While Ben assembled their instruments on the curb, Perry popped open the trunk in search of Jordan's needed headgear. He found her visor entangled in his old windbreaker, which he had worn religiously for the better part of his junior year: the year when he and Jordan had decided to try dating steadily. The memory of her curled up in that windbreaker was pleasant. Too pleasant. That Jordan-n'-Perry didn't exist anymore. They had matured past that sappy crap and were prepared to continue doling out the abuse in excess. After all, that was how they functioned as a couple.

"Today, Per!"

He tossed her the visor, which she promptly snapped on, and collected his belongings. Ben had thoughtfully purchased a cooler for him to replace the one Perry had broken last year in a fit of rage neither boy was particularly eager to revisit. When Perry picked it up, he nodded slightly at Ben; the brunet smiled and hitched the strap of his saxophone higher onto his bony shoulder.

The three plodded up the teacher parking lot and onto the concrete walkway. Instead of going through the front doors, they slipped through the woodshop, which protruded from the art wing like a malformed callus. Props from the spring musical, _Hairspray, _had been left to ruin, decrepit and shimmering with a fine sheen of dust. It would be about a month before they were recycled to create backdrops for the autumn play.

When they emerged from the shop, smelling sweetly of woodchips, they arrived at the angle where the long hallway and short hallway converged. To their left was the door to the band suite; the propped-open doors to the auditorium laid ahead of them. A pair of restrooms bridged the gap between suite and stage. Wen was at the water fountain, refilling his canteen.

"Hey, Wen."

The eighteen-year-old glanced up from the spigot and smiled affably. "Hey, Perry. Nice to see you again. How was camp?"

"Great. Really great. Why, I'm sure I could take on an emergency room. How'd the surgery interning go for you?"

"Amazing. I learned a lot and it looks great on my transcript," Wen added, capping his plastic canteen. He was cool, perpetually bright, a mild-mannered, criminally unflappable sort who would fare well in any operating room. Kelso trusted no other musician with the rowdy percussion section and for good reason. Wen, though approachable, ran a tight ship and those who couldn't sail were left treading water.

"Cool." Perry shifted his binder, which was slung over his shoulder with a Red Wings strap, and nodded towards the suite. "Sunshine in yet?"

"Yeah, she's having a leader meeting at eight. Probably the same stuff about making this the best year ever." Lucy was notorious for her upbeat attitude and positive speeches that prefaced nearly every major marching event. Some, mostly Perry, did not find solace in her cheeriness. Which was why he had taken to calling her "Sunshine".

"Whoop-de-frickin'-doo," Jordan intoned with a less-than-merry flick of her eyes. "In the mean time, I'm running down to Starbucks. Give me a five, Per."

Ordinarily, Perry wouldn't be handing out charity to his quasi-girlfriend, but he needed her out of his hair for at least a few minutes. So, he dug into the pocket of his shorts and shoved a crumpled bill into her expectant hand. As she skipped off and Ben struck up a conversation about the rookie prank with Wen, Perry brought his things into the band suite.

Even though Perry was never one to indulge the more nostalgic aspects of marching season, he was still somewhat taken aback by the memories the mere scent of the band suite incited. He breathed deeply through his nose, taking in the conflicting aromas of sunscreen and sweat and brass polish. Within those smells were memories, folded away like tiny gems: winning State his freshman year, playing the solo for the winter concert, accepting his Most Valuable Musician award, kissing Jordan by the cages, fighting with Jordan by the cages, being a scared little rookie. It was all here, contained within the four white walls.

"You miss me?"

He swiveled around and growled at the Asian girl leaning out of Kelso's office. She was tall, sleek, compact; her close-cropped hair was as dark as the pupil of an eye and her confident stance intimated a great strength. "Gee, Sunshine, that's awfully self-centered of you."

"Like you and Jordan were sitting around having a slumber party," she replied caustically. Her sarcasm went unrivaled in the band: even Perry had occasional difficulty conjuring an appropriately smart-ass response to her smart-ass remarks. This time though, he was prepared for the full extent of Lucy's sardonic wit.

"I hear that's what she's been doing with you. How's your summer been, Sunshine? Find yourself a nice girlfriend? One who can actually stand you in large quantities?"

"Yes, actually, I'm so honored that you'd ask. Her name is Casey. She's a color guard girl and no, her rack isn't like Tisdale's, but she's the nicest girl in the world and, unlike you, I don't feel miserable when I'm around you. You've been home for, what, a few hours? How quickly have you and Jordan worked to make each other's lives a living hell?"

Speech failed him for a brief moment. To think Lucy, who was always preoccupied with band and schoolwork, had finally snagged herself a pretty girlfriend was nothing short of earth-shaking for Perry. And to think that her relationship was already outweighing his in terms of… well, stability and virtue and all that jazz, was disappointing to say the least. "Well, that's none of your business."

"You can tell her she doesn't have to go on a date with me anymore," Lucy said.

"And she was so excited to take a smart-ass, sunshine-vomiting drum major out for a night on the town," he deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest. Her pleated eyes widened almost imperceptibly at the thought of Jordan—who could send both genders swooning with just a single jumping jack during warm-ups—harboring a crush on her. "Holy mother of God, Sunshine…"

"Jordan is _hot_. Everyone thinks that. Laverne thinks it. Tisdale thinks it. Hell, even Molly thinks it. And you know Carla would probably marry Jordan if you weren't already sort of, you know… in there," Lucy explained, encapsulating the phrase "in there" with air quotations. Perry scowled, but his menace had grown increasingly insipid as the conversation progressed.

"And just where is Carla?"

"On her way. You know, Perry, now that you're eighteen, your little crush on her is just kind of… sickening. You're kind of a pedophile."

Words escaped him once again, although this time for an entirely different reason. It was a little known secret that Perry was infatuated with the petite, fierce color guard captain. The two had been close for years and despite his history with Jordan, Perry's affection for Carla had yet to falter. Now that he was inching towards academic liberation, marching season was essentially his last shot to express his feelings. Not that he planned on doing so.

As if summoned by the mere thought, the band suite door was flung open by a beautiful Latina girl. Her dark curls had been hairsprayed into submission and her twinkling doe eyes were framed with dark liner drawn by a steady hand. A red duffel bag dangled from one shoulder; a drawstring pack was slung over the other. Both articles were abandoned once she recognized the senior standing in the suite's threshold.

"Perry!" She flung her arms around him and pulled him into an intimate embrace that sent his pulse skyrocketing. Ignoring Lucy's bemused expression, Perry anchored one beefy arm around her diminutive frame and rested his chin on her head. "I missed you!"

"Guess I missed you too, then."

Carla playfully swatted his arm as they parted from the hug, glossed lips twisted into a delighted smirk. "You didn't change at all, Crazy Eyes."

"Like you expected me to change."

"Not really," she admitted. "You ready for the season?"

"Carla, I'm not ready for a lot of things: the end of the world caused by global warming, Hugh Jackman's unending Oscar speech, the day when Jordan will finally take every last shred of dignity I'm proud to call my own. A load of incompetent rookies is the least of my worries."

"You better not torture them. They're just kids, after all."

Before Perry could insist that kids or not, he was not about to coddle a bunch of freshmen, Lucy began to rap dementedly on her flowered glock block. "Captain meeting! Captain meeting in Kelso's office!"

Carla locked arms with Perry and led him into the cluttered little room, which had a glass plate window overlooking the suite. An L-shaped desk was crammed into the corner, its exterior papered with fluorescent fliers and drawings supplied by past students. Award shelves lined the walls; two mucky chairs and a filing cabinet occupied the fragment of space not already claimed by school-owned instruments, portfolios, and wrecked computer monitors.

Lucy waited, perched precariously on the desk's ledge, for the captains to file in. Perry, Jordan, Carla, Ben, and Wen packed themselves into the cracker box of an office and began rationing their oxygen; Jordan's siliconed lips swelled ominously around the straw of her vanilla bean frappe. Once her fellow leaders were assembled, she set the infamous block aside and beamed. "All right, guys! First day of band camp and the first day of your senior year. I hope you guys are ready for a hard year. The show is… insane. Absolutely insane. Our rookies have another thing coming. But! That's where you fabulous people come in! I need you guys to work extra hard to teach these rookies what Sacred Heart's all about: giving a hundred percent. That means different things for all of you. Wen, you're getting a lot of rookies who're used to being the best at their middle school. You know the saying."

"Kill their cockiness," Wen replied wisely. Ben chuckled; Carla tilted her head quizzically as she pondered how someone as levelheaded as Wen had coined such a proverb.

"Right! Okay, Perry, Ben: you guys always have the biggest section, which means more talent. You guys have the shyer kids, too. So that means you treat them nicely. Be firm, but actually try to know these kids. We want them enjoying things! If they have fun, they'll want to work hard and put on a damn good show. You know what that means, Perry. Don't traumatize them. Don't treat them like crap unless they absolutely deserve it. Ben, keep your dear friend in check. Jordan: brass is where it's at, I get it. But you guys need to stay on task. Remember last year's tuba debacle? I know you've got the boss thing totally down, but you need to treat these kids with a little respect first. And no flirting until day three. Carla: You've got this. Kelso was absolutely right when he named you captain. But don't try to take on more than you can handle, sweetie. You're amazing and a great leader, but it's going to be challenging."

Carla nodded gravely. She was the first junior to ever be named color guard captain and knew she lacked the experience that distinguished her from the remainder of her section. However, she was incredibly determined and a classically trained dancer who could have orchestrated her own auxiliary routine and taken first in every competition. No one dared to question her presence among the seniors.

Lucy scanned the five exhausted, sweaty musicians she was glad to call her friends and clapped her hands together. "Okay! We're ready to kick serious ass this year!"

"Sunshine, please, spare us the cheerleading routine."

"Choke on it, Perry."

**a/n: **This chapter is really bad, actually, and I apologize for it. I really wanted to explore Perry's relationship with Ben and Jordan, and give him a lot of character development before he's introduced to JD. I like exposition. Sorry this took a month, but I almost gave up in the middle of writing it. Glad I'm back! See you guys next time!


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